


A Parting Gift

by orphan_account



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Pillow Talk, mentions of needles, soft domestic vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25453474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Helena and Dinah talk tattoos.
Relationships: Helena Bertinelli/Dinah Lance
Comments: 4
Kudos: 66





	A Parting Gift

They’re lying in bed together on a Friday morning (if 11.30 can still be considered morning). They hadn’t got home until three or four in the morning, the adrenaline from taking down a group of traffickers keeping them awake at least an hour after that, and Helena is tracing her fingers over the bird that rests against Dinah’s shoulder blade. She often finds herself drawn to little markings on Dinah’s skin: the mole above her right hip bone, the soft scatter of barely-there freckles across her nose, the scar to the right of her spine. And of course, the bird tattoo.

She knows the story. She hadn’t asked. After all, if anyone understands the need to become someone other than yourself, to hide behind a name, an identity, it’s Helena. But Dinah had told her all the same, that first night, when Helena had first ran her fingers across the outline, marvelling in the way the little bird almost seemed to breathe when Dinah did.

She’d spoken in that low, soft voice that she always uses when talking about the past, and Helena had stopped moving, letting every part of her concentrate on Dinah’s voice as she spoke about her mom.

_“I didn’t want to start doing shows at these seedy ass clubs, using my real name, y’know? So I guess I just adopted the nickname she’d used all those years ago. It seemed fitting. And now... now I guess I’m doing the exact same work she used to do. Like, it’s all come full circle.”_

Helena sighs, nuzzling closer to Dinah, taking in the now so familiar smell of her hair and pressing a kiss to the little bird. She’s still drawn to it, all this time later. The movement is just more fluid, more confident.

Dinah, who is scrolling through her Instagram feed, propped up on her side, leans into the attention, locking her phone with a _click_ , and rolling to face Helena.

“You have a thing for that tattoo,” she teases, and Helena takes in the soft lines of her face, the easy smile, the way her eyes are crinkled, even if she looks a little tired, the smudge of mascara on her cheek where she hadn’t quite gotten it all off the night before.

“I have a thing for you,” she corrects, leaning forward for a kiss, which Dinah pulls away from, leaving her pouting indignantly. She couldn’t be further removed from her vigilante alter ego.

Dinah’s fingers dance across Helena’s ribs, not quite tickling but leaving goose flesh in their wake, and she smirks, “you ever think about getting any?”

“Hmm?” She’s lost the thread of conversation, her focus on Dinah’s touch, and her face in profile, and how good she looks in the afternoon sun, her eyes blazing and the light bouncing off all the gold in her hair.

“Ink,” Dinah clarifies, her lips tuning up at the corners in amusement, and her fingers stopping their movement to curl around Helena’s hipbone.

Whetting her lips, Helena shakes her head, looks down, “I don’t like needles.”

The laugh that Dinah lets out at that revelation is low and melodic, and Helena risks a look at her, her eyes crinkled with embarrassment. It’s so bizarre to think that only a few months ago, the idea of anybody getting to know the intricacies of her was ridiculous, and now here she is, spilling her secrets with no prelude. That’s just what Dinah does to her, though. She’s become an open book, to be read by only one person.

“That is _not_ true. I have literally sewn you up on countless occasions, H. I’ve seen you _sew yourself up_.”

“As a necessity!” Helena yells, rolling over to face her fully. “There’s a difference between being forced to do something, and doing it for _fun_.”

“Ok, ok. I get it. I’m just... shocked,” she smiles at the way Helena’s frowning, smoothing the furrow between her eyebrows out with her thumb, “you know, it’s not like getting a shot, though. It doesn’t even look like a needle.”

Helena says nothing, knowing that if this were anyone else, she’d have stormed off by now. But not Dinah. Never, when Dinah is looking at her with that soft scrutiny in her eyes, and her fingers brushing over Helena’s skin, a hint of a smile on her lipstick-less mouth, and the little lines at the corners of her eyes more pronounced than ever. Even the most uncomfortable conversations - and this is far from being one of them, this topic not even a scratch on the surface - could be made bearable by being in this woman’s presence.

An assassin is never supposed to have a weakness. Least of all one that’s so completely obvious to anybody who ever sees the two of them together. Yet, here she is.

“What would you get?” Dinah’s voice brings her back to the conversation, her fingers tilting Helena’s chin to face her, the touch so achingly familiar. This is how she’d kissed her that first time, firm and decisive, but allowing Helena to pull away. It’s how she attacks everything: with a confidence and precision that Helena only has when she’s wearing the mask of her alter ego.

She shrugs, dipping her head to catch Dinah’s fingers with her mouth, but the blonde is too quick for her, moving away before Helena can distract her away from the topic. Once again, her reflexes are put to shame by the only person who is capable of it, and Helena might be annoyed, if not for the caress that follows it, Dinah’s hand smooth and soft without the dozens of rings she usually wears.

“I haven’t thought about it,” Helena finally says. It’s true. She hasn’t. There hasn’t been much she’s ever cared about enough to have permanently on her body. At least, nothing so beautiful as Dinah’s little bird. There’s nothing she’s ever wanted to carry with her from place to place besides her crossbow, her brother’s car, and the crayon drawing that she’d tossed out as soon as the final figure had been crossed through.

“No?” Dinah moves to tuck loose strands of dark hair behind Helena’s ear, and she’s tempted to turn her head, kiss the palm of her hand. But she doesn’t want Dinah to pull away again, so she doesn’t.

“No.”

Not that her self restraint counts for anything, because Dinah lets go, moving with ease back to her side of the bed, picking her phone up as if they hadn’t just been talking. Helena watches her, missing the loss of contact, but used to these games. She sees the little twist of Dinah’s mouth in concentration, the way she’s staring at her phone screen, her fingers moving down the screen with care. It’s the same expression Dinah gets when she’s training, or when she’s choosing food from a menu, or when she’s trying to decipher one of Renee’s drunken texts. Helena finds it so endearing, she doesn’t even question what the blonde is up to, until she’s having Dinah’s cell phone thrust towards her.

On the screen, she’s drawn a delicate little arrow. At first, Helena doesn’t understand, but then she does, and looks at Dinah in disdain.

“Okay, before you tear me down, let me explain,” Dinah says, using two fingers to zoom in on what she’s drawn, “these 4 dots are code for the letter H - for Huntress - and the line through the arrowhead separating it into two stands for transformation. The arrow seems obvious, I know, but in some cultures it means protection, or moving forward.”

It _is_ a pretty design, and the meaning behind it is enough to make Helena’s cheeks flush, but she isn’t convinced. 

“Dinah... I don’t...” she sputters. In all honesty, she’s so touched by the gesture she doesn’t know what to say. Her relationship with this insanely wonderful woman never fails to find new ways of catching her entirely off guard.

Dinah watches her carefully, before letting a small smirk drift to her lips. “Hey, if you don’t get it, maybe I will.”

And it’s too soon for that kind of gesture but Helena pictures it all the same, can almost imagine her fingers roaming over the careful dots, the fine, delicate lines, blushing at the memory of this very moment, at the knowledge that she is forever etched onto someone else’s skin. On Dinah’s skin.

She’s distracted enough that when Dinah moves to straddle her - phone placed back on the bedside unit, and eyes suddenly dark, ever so slightly hooded - she’s taken by surprise, and Dinah momentarily gets the upper hand, pressing her hot mouth against Helena’s throat in that way that drives her wild. Helena gasps, and she’s barely conscious of Dinah taking her hands, guiding one up between their bodies. She expects to be led to a breast - not that she needs guidance for finding those - but Dinah stops against her ribs, presses Helena’s hand there, holds it still.

Ignoring her partner’s whine at the loss of contact, Dinah draws back from her neck, but only a little. Her breath is warm against the shell of Helena’s ear as she whispers.

“How about here?”

And it takes Helena a moment to realise what she’s asking. Again, the thought of the ink against Dinah’s soft, silk-like skin makes her hesitate, momentarily awestruck. But only for a moment. Only as long as it takes for her to find Dinah’s mouth with her own.

And then all thoughts of tattoos are long gone.


End file.
